Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
“Probably because she could.” He gave a shrug, indifferent to the reasons. Why did the deities do anything? She’d been hungry. They’d been there, standing, apparently just as appetizing a meal as any other flora or fauna nearby. Clearly not bothered by the reasons, he motioned onwards, grabbing hold of some jerky from his packs and offering some out to Tal. “We fed her some gore crows and she seemed content with that.” Deimos, having been very young when first encountering anything death-affiliated, could only snort. It had been rendered a great deal over his lives, blow by blow, and action by action, until ghosts were a natural part of his memories and actions. Intending to steer away from those precarious lines, he stared at the team of dogs, and the additional sled. Curious. Nosey. He jutted his jaw forward, indicating the courier’s likely assembly line of prized possessions. “How do you work such a thing?”
